It wasn't supposed to be this way.

After the deaths of half of the X-Men team due to one of —the almost demential— Charles' telekinetik seizures everything was supposed to go on a-okay.

He was growing old, sick. His healing factor wasn't what It used to be anymore, and his claws hurt to pull out of his knuckles.

He feared leaving you alone before you were able to fend for yourself.

You were living in an abandoned old smelting plant with him, Caliban, and Charles.

You were just a teen. Practically a kid when the deaths happened, and he was afraid of leaving you behind before you were ready.

However, the universe wanted to come and bite him in the ass with this one.

You were as sick as a dog. Had been for a while. Stuck in bed, feverish, nonsensical and incoherente mumbled spilling past your lips, late-night puking and constant shivers. Yet they couldn't bring your to the hospital, because you were all mutants —and mutants weren't very well welcomed—.

He was praying for the universe not to be as cruel as to snatch you away from him like this.

He was an old man now. Slight wrinkles on his face, his beard unkept, his hair laced with grey streaks.

Yet, here he was —even with the ache in his bones. Sitting by your bed day and night just to be there for you in the moments you were awake and conscious —to feed you and give you your medicine.

,,

He was sitting by your bed, reading some book —his reading glasses almost falling from the tip of his nose—. The lamp in the nightstand casting a warm glow over his features, softly highlighting his worry.

And then he Heard rustling in the bedsheets, your hazy and droppy eyes staring at him through feverish moisty. You were awake.

He closed the book, avoiding loud noises, before his big warm hand was going to rest on your stomach over the covers —gently rubbing circles onto the skin.

"hey.. bub" he murmured, his voice low —a deep rumble in his chest—. "you with me, kid?" he asked softly.